I live above a shop that sells body lotions, hand creams and massage oils. It’s safe, middle-class and wholesome: ‘Of warm and savoury character’, reads one of the advertising stickers on the window.
The product on display in my window is less wholesome; less safe. Like anything though, it’s on sale.
For the right price.
(If you want to use this photo for my Sinful Stories competition, please be my guest!)
I write in all sorts of places. I write on public transport, hunched over my laptop or furiously tapping away at my phone. I write in greasy cafes, and gastro pubs, and gourmet restaurants. I write in serious work meetings, when I’m meant to be taking notes, because I get a thrill out of doing things that I know I shouldn’t.
Most of all though, I write at home. When no-one else is here, I sit at the kitchen table – reassuringly solid and homely – with a glass of wine rarely more than 18 inches from my laptop. When my flatmate is around, I squirrel myself away in my room, and spread out on the bed. I listen to the street noise, and the pitter-patter of rain on my window. I relish the feeling of soft sheets on naked skin, and I let my fingers dance across the keyboard. I’m happy and relaxed when I write like that.
I think it shows.
I do my best work in bed.
Or so I’ve been told.
Back in April, I linked up with Molly Moore to run a short story competition. Writers were invited to use photos from Molly’s Sinful Sunday project as inspiration for erotic stories, and boy did they deliver. I was overwhelmed by the volume and quality of the submissions, by the generosity of some really brilliant sponsors, and by the general enthusiasm the contest generated.
Six months later, it feels like time to see whether lightning can strike twice. Molly has been kind enough to agree to another Sinful Sunday tie-in, and once again I have some fantastic prizes lined up for the winners. Excited? You should be…
The Challenge
Write an erotic short story, no longer than 2500 words, using a photo from the November 9th edition of Molly Moore’s Sinful Sunday meme as the inspiration (please please read the full rules below for more details)
The Prizes
Winner: a £50 (~$80) online voucher for Sh!, London’s multi award-winning sex store; and a $15 voucher for Dreamspinner Press, the hottest gay erotica publisher around
Runner-up #1: an electronic or paperback copy of Candy Box, the latest illustrated erotic anthology from Sweetmeats Press
Runner-up #2: a paperback or electronic copy of Chemical Sex, edited by Oleander Plume
Readers’ Choice Award: TBC
Huge thanks to Sh!, Dreamspinner Press and Sweetmeats Press for agreeing to support this competition for a second time. They’re all lovely, enthusiastic, sex-positive organisations, which I’m happy and proud to be associated with. If you’re planning to enter the contest, or if you have any interest at all in sex toys and erotic fiction, please do check out their websites and enjoy what they have to offer.
If you’d like to get involved and sponsor either the second runner-up prize, or the Readers’ Choice Award, please do contact me by email or DM.
The Rules
If you have any questions, or feel there’s something important that I haven’t covered here, please do get in touch.
I loved running this competition last time round, for the buzz it generated and for all the super-hot stories people submitted. I’d love to get the same sort of response this time, so check out next week’s Sinful Sunday (note: not this week’s), put on your perviest thinking cap, and…happy writing!
Since I started doing Anonymous Sinful Sunday back in June, I’ve been lucky enough to host some fantastic images and words. The two October submissions not only meet the standard established over the last few months – they arguably raise it. Both tell a compelling story, and both manage to be extremely hot, while revealing comparatively little. They made me think: about why we send sexy photos, and whether we do it for the recipient or for ourselves; and about how hard it is to truly expose ourselves sometimes, and let others not only see us, but represent us as they see us.
I hope you enjoy them as much as I did, and if you want to be featured here on the last Sunday of next month, please get in touch.
[EDIT: One of the people who submitted a photo for this post has asked for it to be removed.]
My Portrait
He got in touch because he was going to be in London for a week and he and the friend he was visiting wanted to watch each other with someone else. He thought it might interest me. It did. But what interested me more was that he was an artist. “Will you draw me?”, I asked. “I’ll draw you like one my French women”, he joked, paraphrasing Titanic.
I revealed my motivations. I told him about Sinful Sunday, the amazing sense of community and encouragement I see amongst the regulars each week, and how once a month my friend donates his page to anyone who wants to post anonymously. I told him how much I’d already got out of contributing photos each month and that he had now got me thinking that if I was going to take advantage of my friend’s generosity with his blog to face my own body issues then I may as well take the bull by the horns and really expose myself: surely time spent sitting for a portrait, being studied, would be much more of a test?
Despite everything else that happened in that hotel room that afternoon this definitely felt the most intimate. There’s a vulnerability in sitting there, still, hearing the sweep of pencil on paper but not knowing how your body is being interpreted. But I loved it and I am very glad I did it. And I definitely wouldn’t have had the confidence to do it a few months ago, so thank you to Molly, Exhibit A and everyone who has written lovely comments about my other contributions. And thanks, of course, to the artist for my drawing – I’m going to have it framed.
I haven’t always been a fan of the locker room. I haven’t always been a fan of my body either, and those two things are certainly not unconnected. These days though, I think nothing of wandering around naked after a hockey match, or casually chatting to my team-mates in the shower, even if my legs are burning and my back is sore and my cock is soft and starved of blood.
I like to take my time over getting changed, and sometimes that means I’m the last one in there. Or the first one, if my team-mates decide to prioritise food over the showers. When that happens I like to take a moment to sit back, close my eyes, and let my entire body relax. Any muscle ache is accompanied by a rush of satisfaction and pleasure; it matters (greatly) whether we’ve won, but even if we haven’t, I’m always glad that I’ve pushed my body through 70 minutes of pain.
The changing room is not an especially sinful – or sexual – environment. Girls’ nights in do not typically end in pillow fights (or so I’m led to believe) and my post-game shower has never descended into an orgy of cock and sweat and pent-up testosterone. Well, not really.
More’s the pity – that’s what I say. I’m always exhausted when I get in there, but still something about sitting naked on that bench today made me realise how often I’ve thought about sex in those minutes after a match, when my adrenaline levels are still elevated. How often I’ve wanted someone to come in and take me in their mouth, sucking my cock till it renounces solidarity and leaves the rest of my body to its limp tiredness. I’ve still never done it: post-match sex, in the locker room, with a girlfriend, fuck-buddy…or team-mate. It will happen one day, I’m sure. Till then, I’ll continue to let it distract me each week, as I slowly strip off my kit and get ready to shower with the boys…
After three successive months of receiving three anonymous Sinful Sunday photos, today I have two to share: luckily the reduction in quantity has not brought with it any drop in the quality of submission, as the photos below clearly demonstrate…
My imperfect perfect body
I like shoes. I love underwear.
I like the shape of my calves in heels and my whole look when I’m in a good pair of biker boots. I love the feeling of silky material when I’m freshly waxed and the look of my tits in a beautiful bra. They’re trappings that help me sculpt my imperfect body and feel beautiful.
But October is knocking and autumn means one thing for me: training starts for spring races. There’s a half marathon and (hopefully!) a marathon with my name on them before April is through. Which means for the next six months I get to wear the shoes and bra in which I feel my absolute sexiest, four times a week. And with each mile I fall more in love with my beautiful perfect body.
Untitled
I’ve noticed that when I post pics like this on my Twitter account I invariably get at least one response saying that I should shave. Such commenters seem to not understand that it’s my decision to shave or not. So I wanted a safe place to post this pic of me in my natural state.
On Saturday afternoons, I play hockey. On Sunday mornings, I recover.
I play hockey pretty much every Saturday from mid-September through till the beginning of April: it’s one of the few constants in my generally chaotic life. I play on freezing cold December mornings, when your fingers tingle every time you hit the ball and your breath follows you like a jet trail as you hurtle around at 100mph. I play on leaf-strewn pitches in late October, the blustery chill in the air carrying the smell of bonfires from the gardens and allotments of whichever town we’re visiting. I play in March, when Spring feels like both a beginning and an end, giving us all renewed vigour and a sense of joy, just as the season is winding down.
I play in sunshine, snow, wind, rain, sleet, hail, and everything in between. And I love it.
At this time of year though, fat and lazy after a summer of relative inactivity, playing hockey hurts. It hurts on the pitch, when I ask the umpire how long it is until half-time, and his answer almost makes me throw up at the thought of pushing my body through that much further punishment. It really hurts a few hours later, in the pub or slumped on my sofa, weak as a kitten and starting to stiffen up in all the wrong places. Most of all though, it hurts the following morning: a dull, delicious ache in my calves and hamstrings, my thighs and arse. It’s like the morning after a particularly vigorous anal fuck: pain to gladden human hearts.
On those sore, stiff Sunday mornings, I like to stay in bed. In September, when it’s still warm and sunny outside, I open the window and let the breeze drift across my naked body. The sunlight is a balm for weary muscles, and sometimes I’ll doze like that, on and off, till it’s time to get up and go for lunch. If I can drag myself out of bed and into clothes for long enough, I’ll go and buy a newspaper, then settle back down with a cup of tea and whatever food I can get my hands on.
Whether I’m alone or not, I’m always horny on those lazy Sundays. It’s partly the last of the endorphins from hockey, I think, combined with a sort of simple contentment at having done something active and healthy: my body feels like it’s earned a period of total indulgence. It wants to be pampered, but slowly, and without urgency. I find my hands just wandering down towards my soft, sleepy cock and resting there, savouring the knowledge that I have all the time I could want or need: there’s no need to rush.
Maybe none of that sounds especially sinful. I’ve been awake now for three hours, after all, and that bottle of lube in the photo hasn’t even been opened yet. Still, to allow the sunlight to stream through my tall, wide windows, I had to open the curtains. I can hear the cars and buses trundling along Upper Street, and the Sunday morning shoppers chattering away outside cafes and boutiques. They can’t hear me, and they certainly can’t see me, but the people in the flats opposite…I wonder what they can see right now…
For the third time, I’m turning over my Sinful Sunday entry to people who want to take part in Molly’s meme, but don’t feel able to do so on their own site. It’s complete coincidence, I’m sure, but each time I’ve done this, I’ve had three people submit a photo to me [EDIT: one has since asked that her photo be removed], which feels like the perfect number; still, I’m happy to be proved wrong on that, so if you’re reading this, and you’d like to post a Sinful Sunday photo here anonymously, please get in touch – the next chance to do so will be on the 28th September.
I think there’s something to enjoy about all three both of this month’s photos, which are sexy, brave and kinky in equal measure. Many thanks to the lovely people who sent them!
Untitled
Primal Colour
It’s fair to say that Girl on the Net is a rather accomplished young lady. Good at swearing, great at drinking, pretty fucking excellent at putting things in her cunt (or so I hear)…she can even hold a halfway decent conversation about philosophy, for someone who learnt the ropes at such a second-rate university. Online, she’s obviously best known for her writing, which is, by turns, funny, insightful, angry, sexy, educational, (devastatingly) honest, and all the rest of the good stuff for which we’d all like to be recognised. It’s not a stretch to say that she’s the UK’s leading sex blogger, and by some distance at that.
However, what a lot people don’t know about GOTN is that she also writes incredibly hot erotic fiction. I discovered this by accident a few months ago, when I commissioned her to write me a story: she needed fast cash, I was curious to see whether she was as talented a fiction writer as she was a blogger, and a mutually beneficial arrangement was hastily reached.
It’s a Friday, and I seem completely unable to finish the two stories that I’m currently working on, so with her permission I’ve decided to share the results of that arrangement here. We agreed at the time that she’d take one of my Sinful Sunday photos, and write a story about it; she chose to use this post as inspiration, and came up with a filthy little tale of a boy who gets a whole lot more than he’d bargained for. I’m not going to disclose what I paid her for the work, but I will say that I had no complaints about the return I got on my investment, and that I imagine her price has risen significantly since then.
Enjoy!
—
Revenge, by Girl on the Net
“You have a fucked-up idea of ‘fun’,” I told him, wiping tears from my cheeks and trying to rearrange my clothes. At that point all I wanted was to be covered. To hide the heat and the blush spreading across my chest. After the humiliation of what happened downstairs, I wanted to cover up completely – bury myself in sheets and clothes and blankets and hide. Become unsexual. For a short time at least.
“I thought you were enjoying it.” He sounded genuinely chastened. As if, as he marched straight over the line I didn’t want him to cross, he’d genuinely thought it was OK.
Here’s what happened, the short version: we were in the living room with his friends. Drink was not just flowing but flooding. Most of the girls had retired to the kitchen, but I – ever the attention-seeking one – sat in the middle of this group of happy guys: flirting, playing, and occasionally hoping I’d catch one looking down my top.
One of them made a flattering comment:
“You have gorgeous tits. He’s a lucky man.” A hat-tip to D, who smiled proudly, the exact moment at which it should have ended.
“She has, hasn’t she?” he smirked. “Go on, show them off.”
Now this wasn’t a particularly unusual suggestion. D and I were used to me showing off – in clubs, at parties, when we were in full-on fuckhorny mode I’d love to show off my tits. In front of strangers at fetish clubs was my favourite. Eyes cast down, hands placed on top of my head, I’d quiver with exhibitionist delight as he’d pull my top down, open my blouse, or lift up whatever t-shirt I was wearing to let strangers stare and rub and pinch my tits. Sometimes I’d let him slip down my top in the back of taxis so the driver got an eyeful of my taut nipples through the thin lace of my bra. Other times I’d do it myself – offering looks and touches to men I didn’t know. Strangers. I loved to feel their rough hands on me – the needy exploration and hot delight at being offered something previously out of bounds. The only thing better was feeling their eyes on me, as D showed me off proudly. Firm, heavy tits moving gently up and down as I breathed faster, knowing they were appraising me, hoping they wanted to touch.
So he knew I liked showing off, although I’d never shown off to friends before. The glint in his best friend’s eye was enough to make me tense, getting slightly wet at the thought of presenting myself to the people we knew in the middle of a party not designed for perverts. I wanted to feel his eyes on me, like the eager eyes of a stranger.
But that’s all it was – a fantasy. D perhaps didn’t suspect that what I liked to do elsewhere – in groups of people who didn’t know us – was unconscionable in front of our friends. Our friends who’d think badly of me. Call me ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ and ‘pricktease.’ The back of my neck felt cold even as D reached for my hand to pull me into a standing position.
“Go on, give them a quick flash,” he slurred, hot with booze and pride. I laughed, pretended it was all a joke, then shuddered as he reached for my top.
I wasn’t wearing a bra – just a tight, long-sleeved t-shirt with exactly the scoop neck he liked. I’d wanted him to push me against the wall in hallways and doorways – private places. Wanted him to follow me on trips to the bathroom, pull down on the top and run his fingers over my nipples when no one was looking. But people were looking now – everyone was. One or two of the girls had gathered back in the room and were making nervous raised-eyebrow faces at one another as D put me on display.
“A countdown, shall we?” he said. The boys sat up, conversation abandoned as the show was about to start. Most looked keen although one or two shuffled nervously. I kept smiling – it was all I could do. Angry and frustrated and, despite my brain screaming murder, desperately aroused.
“Three…” He gripped the neck of my top and I could feel his rough fingers brushing my chest.
“Two…” My cunt twitched, and I could feel the wetness soaking into my knickers.
“One…” He pulled, and a cheer went up from the boys. I blushed bright red and tried to think about something – anything – that would stop the arousal spreading from the throbbing wetness in my cunt to the pit of my stomach. I failed.
There was a kick of lust, delight, and urgent need – knowing I was being watched and mocked it… well… it turned me on. Humiliated me. Enraged me. Tore me into two separate people – one of which I liked and the other I despised. I felt like, in not stopping him or showing outrage I’d betrayed myself, and shown myself to be a dirty, pathetic slut.
Just in case you were wondering, you know, why I’m sitting on the bed now listening to his apologies and wanting to hide under bedsheets forever.
“I’m so sorry,” he knelt down beside me. His smart shirt looked creased, tired like he did. With his head bowed in misery I wanted to take pity on him – pull him closer to me and let him rest his head against my chest as he wallowed in misery too.
“I just… you know,” he muttered.
“I know.” For a second the desire to forgive overwhelmed me. He wasn’t to know. He’s an idiot when he’s drunk and besides – hadn’t I loved it? Hadn’t I wanted it? Hadn’t I got wet and hot as he exposed me to all his friends?
But I kicked that feeling to one side. Not now. Forgiveness could come later but for now I needed him to know what it felt like. I wanted to give him exactly the same feelings he’d given me: wet, throbbing arousal coupled with humiliation and fear. A bittersweet taste of the medicine he’d forced me to swallow.
“Stand up.” I told him. He looked at me in surprise, which was just as I wanted. I usually spoke to him softly – a submissive, pleasing lilt. This was the voice with which I’d command a dog.
“Stand. The fuck. Up.” I looked into his eyes, my own burning hate and revenge and a lust I surprised myself with. As he stood he reached out for my hand, and I slapped it away.
“Back off. Don’t touch me.” As if stung, he retreated a couple of steps until he was standing against the wardrobe.
“You think it’s fine to humiliate me? To turn me on and present me in front of your friends like some sort of party prize? Fuck you.” I slapped him, hard. Once on his right cheek, then again for good measure. It bloomed red, and I stepped away from him.
“Take off your shoes.” He looked quizzically at me. “I’m not fucking joking. Take off your shoes.”
He complied, removing his shoes and socks without a word. His expression betrayed his confusion, and something in it made me feel powerful – strong. I was smaller than he was, with weak arms and thin wrists. I used to revel in the power he held over me. But at that moment I realised that I could do with words what he would usually do with rough gestures and strong shoulders and size: I could overpower him.
“You’re going to do exactly what I say now. And you’re not going to refuse, or ask why.”
“Yes,” he replied in a small voice.
“No, actually, just don’t speak.” He nodded. “Take off your pants.”
He slipped his trousers off first, and the sound of his belt slipping through the loops on his trousers no longer signalled to me the start of my punishment, as it had done before – it signalled defeat. Loss. His loss. As he lost his pants I could see the first initial stirrings of that delicious shameful arousal in his cock.
“Touch yourself,” I told him, and took a seat on the bed. He grabbed his dick and squeezed, slowly. He was reluctant to get hard, wary of what I would do next. “Harder. I want to see you rock-solid.” He held himself tighter, started rubbing slowly – unsure about how to proceed but unwilling to disobey my uncharacteristically direct instructions.
At that moment I understood the fun for him – the power he’d enjoyed over me. There was a kick in my gut – a lustful, angry power that spread as I watched him grow harder. I wanted more of this.
“You’re not fucking trying,” I told him, and slapped his hand away. “Undo your shirt.”
All credit to him, he didn’t tremble as he undid the buttons – he understood exactly what I wanted to do, and had resolved to take it with as much dignity as he could scrape together. I grasped his cock and squeezed tight. I slid my hand up and down, far stronger than I would usually. He winced with reluctant desire. I looked at him directly – stared into his face. Today I wouldn’t be on my knees.
When he was hard, at maximum stretch, I stepped back to take him all in. He was angry – check. Horny – double check. And was that? Yes! A blush spreading across his cheeks – he was humiliated, horrified that I’d done this to him so easily. That I’d overpowered him with words and shame. I could probably have stopped there, and the lesson would have been learned. But I wanted it not just learned but burnt, etched deeply into his memory. I wanted him to know that I could win.
“Turn round and face the door.”
“No. Don’t make me go out there.” His usually commanding voice was stretched thin to an almost whimper.
“Yes. I’m not going to tell you again.” It was no longer a surprise to me that he did exactly as instructed. Cock stiffly pointing in front of him, he turned towards the door.
“Open it.” He did, and as he stepped back his hands twitched towards his crotch, desperate to cover himself, to bring back a shred of the dignity that I was so happily stripping away. I took some time to admire the view – his smooth, taut arse framed in the doorway, the shirt draped softly over his hips. The muscles in his legs tense with tension. The fear that someone would come up.
“Are you worried someone will see you?” I asked gently. He nodded, and turned slightly at the softness in my voice.
“They’re all still down there. They’ll be… talking about us.”
“They will, wont they?” I replied. “Talking about you, talking about me. Thinking I’m the slut for showing my tits. Thinking you’re the one with the power.” He nodded again, and at last he trembled – I could see his legs shake delightfully as he stared at the open door.
“Do you hate it?” He nodded again, but placed his hands on his head. “But you love it too, right?”
A pause.
A long pause.
My heart beat faster as I waited for his final nod. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I love it.”
“Good, I replied. Now walk forward.”
Power is hot, and taking the power for myself was fantastic. But it’s the pictures that will stick with me – for the rest of my life what I’ll remember my beautiful boy as he strode slowly across the landing. I hissed steps at him – “Now off with the shirt. Two more steps. That’s good. Lift your t-shirt. Touch your dick. Two more steps. Show me your arse.” He did exactly as I commanded, oblivious to the wolf-whistles and drunken catcalls from downstairs.
By the time he reached the bathroom at the end of the hallway he’d stripped naked. I made him turn round and face me. He stood on the tiles, naked and ashamed, in the semi-darkness of the bathroom at the other end of the hall. Dick red and throbbing and slick with precome, and a face that looked torn between horny and heartbroken. Exactly as I wanted him.
None of our friends had ventured upstairs, although having heard the cheers I’m sure some had seen his walk of shame. As he stood in the bathroom he was hidden from their view – just – and I was safe across the hallway and two paces back in the refuge of the bedroom. Fully clothed and fully in control, I’d never felt more powerful. The deep, gnawing lust was still there, though, and I decided that I wanted to see him come.
“Touch yourself,” I mouthed, looking him straight in the eye. He held my gaze as he did it. Framed in the doorway like he was putting on a private peep show just for me.
He rubbed himself hard – there was no taking his time about it. The worry of being discovered probably helped speed him up. But as he pulled at his dick with swift, urgent strokes it seemed like his motivation was more than that – the power I held over him was new and different and hot enough to get the tip of his cock wet and slick, and give him a twitching, throbbing need to come.
In that moment he knew how I felt. Humiliated into a quivering, lustful slut, whose exposure only prompted a need for more exposure, more humiliation, more fucking.
I folded my arms and watched him, holding on to the deep throbbing in my clit as I watched him push himself to an urgent orgasm. When he came he came in thick spurts – slicking the hand he tried to catch it all in and spilling drops onto the bathroom floor. I mimed touching my own chest, and as he rubbed it into himself, completing the cycle of his own shame, I grinned at him – feeling better.
“Good boy,” I whispered across the hallway. “Good fucking boy.”
On the last weekend in June, I ‘donated’ my Sinful Sunday entry to anyone who wanted to post a photo but didn’t feel able to do so. The resulting post got a really good response, both from the people who took me up on the offer, and from those who enjoyed checking out their work. A couple of people asked me when I was planning to do it again, so after a bit of thought, and a DM conversation with @bawdybloke, I decided to make it a monthly thing.
Today’s Sinful Sunday features three very sexy shots, and some hot words to go with them. Huge thanks to the people who submitted them: I hope you enjoy being part of the Sinful Sunday project!
Mirrored Truth
This picture is me messing around with my new phone, and being a private exhibitionist (I know, contradiction in terms) I had to do a naked selfie. No fancy lighting or much editing done, except for cropping and making the colours a tad warmer and softer. Me, with different size tits, rolls and cellulite on full display. That’s scarier than actually showing my cunt.
His View
I like looking down at my tits in a good bra when I am on top. I think they look their best that way. Why must men always slip their hands around my back, release the clasp and let gravity spoil the view?
Oh. That’s why.
I get it now.
After You’ve Gone
You left for work hours ago and I’m still where you left me. My bed, the scene of last nights fucking. I can smell you on my sheets, on my skin, it’s intoxicating.
I can’t help but smile and run my hand down my body, following the same trail your tongue did last night, my hand ending at my aching pussy. After you’ve gone I think about how you made me feel last night: I can’t wait till you return.
—
Please do let the three contributors know what you think in the comments below!